The Color of Pain
by tigerchic121
Summary: Robin finds that it's not possible to escape...he'll always be haunted by the color red.


Posted because it's been lurking around on my computer long enough. At a time, I wished to do much more with this, but at this point I'll grimace at it and let it go up.

* * *

Red.

The color of a fire hydrant or a shiny apple. The color of a hazy sunset or a budding rose. The color of a warm cozy fire place, dwindling to the end of its blaze or two luscious lips adorned by fiery red lipstick. The color of the bold stop sign, a precious ruby, the blushing cheeks of a love stuck teenager, the bold evening gown.

Red.

The color of a paper cuts wound, or a scabbed knee, or stinging slap, or a bugs bite.

Red.

The color of blood, slowly seeping its way out of the fallen trapeze artists heads, from where they hit the ground, staining a little boy's hand.

Red.

The color of blood gushing from a bullet wound, and onto the traffic light colored uniform of a young teenage man.

Red.

The color trickling its way down the corner of the masked boy's mouth, as he desperately tries to beat back the demons clawing in the back of his mind.

Red.

The color of rage and thoughtlessness, flying unchecked at teammates and friends.

Red.

The color of blood that pollutes the street, as the coroner hurries to zip the body away. The color of a life already over, before the battle of hero and bad guy had even begun. The color of the forgotten sacrifice, the price of happiness, secrets, and responsibility, resting on the shoulders of a leader still too young.

Red!

The color of the end of the world, the end of hope, of salvation or light. The color of destruction, and pandemonium, and chaos.

The color of hell.

Death.

Red.

The color that haunts Robin's dreams.

* * *

**free association** **(noun) **_**free as.so.ci.a.tion**_

_technique for exploring the unconscious: in psychoanalysis, a technique for exploring a patient's unconscious by stimulating the spontaneous and uncensored expression of thoughts or feelings through the use of stimuli such as key words_

Also know as the notes crammed in the minds and margins of first year graduate psychology students.

Also know as, the particular subject of Freudian theory, that Robin wishes would die a short, concise, figurative death.

* * *

It's normal to assume that as one reaches their later teenage years, they've had to deal with death in some shape or form-of a grandparent, great uncle, friend, or simply a pet perhaps. These deaths can (at times) be devastating for said person, but, as is human nature, one must move on.

Sometimes these brushes with death, lead to nightmares and tears, leaving an imprint on a person.

Very rarely, however, do people actually witness the deaths of the people whose funerals they attend.

Night is falling over Jump City, the hazy yellow lights illuminating against the lapping ocean. A sense of victory settles over the city. The bad guys have been beaten, the heroes have won.

And so the heroes celebrate. Tired, sweaty, sore, and bruised they push past their pain to toast victory once again.

"To us!" They boast a tad conceited, feeling cool and on top of the world. "To victory, and people saved!"

The black haired leader stands up; the thrill of a tiny bit of champagne bubbling in his cup, and his victory spurs on his swell of emotion.

"To the best team a leader could ever ask for!" He exclaims, after which he jumps up on his chair and allows himself to be lost in the moment. His companions eyes blaze in delight and a mingling sense of pride.

"To a hardworking bunch of team mates and friends, who have never lost a battle yet! To a team who-"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The Titans mainline rings, showing a direct call from one of the few people allowed to call directly into the Tower. The boy on the chair sways slightly, and then (much to the chagrin of his team) he ambles over to the phone.

"Hello?" He tries to keep the slight tipsy slur out of his voice.

"Robin, hello, there is police Chief Garcia here…" He pause slightly as if unsure how to finish the sentence.

The teen represses a sigh as he realizes this call is business. "Yes, I remember you Sir. Not to be rude but…am I required to do something right now Chief? Do I need to fill out crime reports or something?"

Chief Garcia lets out a melancholy sigh, and his voice takes on a pitiful tone the masked leader does not expect to hear. "Yes Robin…or something."

* * *

Very rarely do people have to document the deaths for which they attend a funeral…

It's funny, in the most ironic, kick you in the gut way, that all good things must eventually come to and end or be off set by the figurative 'side affect.'

As Robin makes his way down to the meeting point the Chief has specified, his stomach bubbles uneasily. Something he suspects has to do with the combination of the battle, swig of champagne, empty stomach, and looming feeling this…this meeting…can't be a normal routine check in. Something is different.

He pulls swiftly into the parking lot of a restaurant hidden away from view by a clump of trees, near the recent battle that has taken place. He parks his motorcycle, pulls his helmet off, dismounts, and takes a look around. Here the spiky haired leader's anxiety rises in the pit of his stomach. There are cop cars surrounding the area, as well as an ominous blue van, but their sirens are off, and they are parked in the corner of the parking lot, hidden by trees. It's almost as if…if their hiding from the surrounding public, trying to remain unseen.

And that's when he sees it.

The blaring, fiery, crimson red staining the black pavement in a splatter of color. His gaze follows the trail of blood first to a chunk of what he supposes is a broken piece if metal belonging to the axel of a car, fizzling with electricity. His eyes then travel over to the figure surrounding by blood.

She can't be much older then thirteen, if her early forming curves, inexperienced make up, and bold outfit are taken into consideration. Her head is thrown to the side, eyes wide in shock, the light in them slowly fading to a dull brown. Blood is seeping from a gash in her head, and there's absolutely no denying that she's…dead.

Chief Garcia sees Robin's horrified expression, and makes a move to come over. "I'm sorry you had to see this Robin, we were hoping that this day would never come but-"

Robin holds up a finger to interrupt him, announces that he's going to throw up, turns and heaves into the bushes.

Robin is haunted by red.

Why?

Because he it reminds him of the little girl, caught in Plasmus's crossfire as she was going to meet her friends? Because it reminds him of his parents death, or his first wound, or the amount of paperwork he has to go through?

No.

It haunts him because it reminds him of the very alive, very real, much forgotten quiet sacrifices that people make to keep the general public happy. People die yet not a one, damn thing gets said about it. The public wants to know that the superheroes will always save the day, that good always triumphs over evil, so lies, blatant disgusting lies are spread, and the families who have lost their loves ones have quiet out of the way funerals, and are forbidden to speak of the death ever again.

Red haunts him, because it reminds him of his broken past, and the amount of suffering he would never wish on anyone.

It's haunts him because he knows he could never, ever, tell his friends that when he disappears after battles, he's going to file crime reports over the dead people, in the flesh people, as if they were nothing more then lab rats. That when he disappears from the Tower, he's going to stand and the back of a crowded church hall sans uniform, to give the deceased his sorry, quiet, bittersweet goodbye.

Red.

The color of pain.


End file.
